You and I
by LoyalNerdWP
Summary: A series of works based on reapersun's 30 day OTP challenge art (written with permission!)
1. D1 - Holding Hands

**A/N** -

_Ahhhhhhh_, okay, so. Let's see if I can complete a challenge. The ideas are all there, so I just have to write the things. Right. I just want to say really quickly that reapersun is just unbelievably talented and she's a really sweet person for giving me permission to write for her completed challenge. I absolutely adore her Sherlock and John and I'm full to the brim with ideas for this. The first entry is a bit short, but I'm hoping the others will be longer!

Here is the art this entry is based off of: (reapersun . tumblr . com)/post/35848470628/30-day-otp-challenge-day-1- holdin g-hands-day

* * *

All he'd planned on doing was getting some bloody bread.

That was absolutely it. Tesco, bread, home. He hadn't had any left for breakfast in the morning and he was off work, so a bit of air, a brisk walk, and he'd be set for tomorrow.

The whole trip went well enough - he got the bread, even treated himself to a gallon of stupidly expensive juice that Harry always goes on about, and walked back home. The bloody _sun_ was even shining.

Then he got home, unlocked the flat, missed the small trackings of mud leading to the stairs, and headed up to the sitting room without a second thought. He didn't think about the adjacent door or look into the lounge before walking into the kitchen to toss the bread on the counter and the juice in the fridge. He let himself be routine and normal and he didn't think about looking for details because that isn't what he _does_.

Now, of course, he's regretting it, because having a bit of premonition might have made this part a bit less difficult.

John can feel his hands shaking - along with his chest, seemingly incapable of taking in a steady breath - and he can't work his jaw enough to get out a single word. Sherlock is waiting for something, his eyes bright and wide, hair curling down in tendrils, too long and beginning to cover his eyes, lip split, eyes dark. He hasn't said anything either, though. He hasn't said a single word, and that, John is almost positive, is the reason his heart is pounding twice as fast as it ought to.

The proof isn't conclusive enough, or... Something like that. Sherlock used to go on and on in situations that didn't make any sense - there wasn't enough evidence to support the hypothesis and that's really horrible right about now, because good, solid proof would be just perfect right now.

_Solid._

Still trembling, John lifts his hand and gives a small shove to Sherlock's shoulder and _oh, god, he's right there and he's... real, solid flesh, alive and right in front of me and __**alive**__._

And then, before he even thinks about it, he's retracting his hand, and then pulling back his arm, and his fist collides with Sherlock's face with a shout of, "You_ prick!"_

The bastard doesn't even flinch. His eyes shut and he stands still until John's knuckles meet his nose, and then he exhales sharply as blood drips onto his lip and John stares, gawping. The previously deceased reaches up and wipes roughly over his lip before making eye contact with John, who's wavering and breathing heavily, with gathering tears that are angry and despondent and _overjoyed_, for fuck's sake, but he's so _angry_.

John pulls his arm back again and propels forward, but Sherlock acts this time and grabs his fist, all too aware that if he allows John to go at him again there will be a time after that, and after that, again and again and again. The counteraction makes John's breath catch in his throat and he shakes his head, fist twisting in Sherlock's grip but never getting free. His other hand come up but Sherlock takes hold of that one as well, gripping tightly to both of them until John loosens the tension in his fist and Sherlock can twine his gloved fingers through the spaces in John's bare ones. His grip is bordering on painful and he won't stop_ staring_ at John like he's the most guilty person on earth, and it's too much because John can hardly _breathe_. He has to remind himself to let air in, and he takes in a gasp of breath that comes back out as a dry sob.

John ducks his head to get away from Sherlock and his blood and that look, hoping to calm himself down even the slightest. All he succeeds in is taking too many short breaths in a short period of time, and he's dizzy and quite sure that he's hiccoughing, only adding to the shaking of his bent form.

"John," Sherlock whispers - his voice rasps and it sounds as though he hasn't spoken since their phone call three years ago.

_Three years._

"You - " John gasps, inhaling in a quick burst, "you were dead."

"You know better than that," Sherlock tells him. It has the same tone as an admonishment, with concealed layers of apologies that he still hasn't spoken.

John digs his fingernails into Sherlock's gloves and lets his head rest against his friend's chest.

"I hate you," John chokes out.

Sherlock keeps his hands tight. "And I know better than that."


	2. D2 - Cuddling

**A/N** -

So this challenge is obviously not going to be 30 days long. Probably a lot longer. I tend to juggle a lot of writing projects at once, and I'm working on about four fanfics and this series. We'll see how long this takes!

Here is the art this entry is based off of: (reapersun . tumblr . com)/post/35900378786/30-day-otp-challenge-day-2-c uddling-day-1

* * *

When John has calmed - fists unclenched and resting at his side - and Sherlock has cleaned up - blood and dirt washed from his face - he asks John to accompany him to Scotland Yard. There are matters of business to finish clearing up and despite the chances of John's safety being affected by his return being extremely small, he's not keen to leave his friend alone in the flat for multiple reasons. It takes convincing, but John begrudgingly pulls on his coat and shoes and follows Sherlock out to a cab.

They sit in silence for the entire ride and the walk to Lestrade's office. Other Yarders glance at them as they walk through, eyes lingering on John's stoic expression. John doesn't look at Sherlock; Sherlock doesn't look at John.

They both, however, look at Lestrade, who watches John fearfully when the doctor finds out that Lestrade has known for a full three months about Sherlock being alive. John sets his jaw and stares at the wall and inhales deeply, exhales slowly, and doesn't ask _why_, because he imagines the answer will make him want to punch Sherlock again. He sits in one of the chairs in front of Lestrade's desk, curling and uncurling his fist, and listens to the two other men talk about a man named Moran and arrest records and more dead people than he cares to hear about.

Sherlock stands close to him and he wants to move away but that would be childish and he's just holding a grudge. He's angry because he grieved and shouted and threw things for nothing, because Sherlock is standing right next to him and he looks a right wreck and he still hasn't apologised.

"They should be getting back to me within the hour," Lestrade says to Sherlock, but he's looking at John. John gives him a Look and he swallows tightly and glances back at Sherlock. "I'll text you as soon as we know; you're free to go."

Nodding, Sherlock pulls his gloves from his pocket and starts slipping them on as he heads towards the door. He pauses, eyes on John, before he steps out.

"Go with him," Lestrade says softly.

John glares up at him. "No one told me," he spits out. "Everyone here knew and not a single person let me know."

"He wouldn't let us," Lestrade promises. "Said something about protecting you. Didn't make sense until we started with all this Moran business. He saved our lives, John. Go with him."

Continuing to glare, John huffs and pushes up to stand, a nerve twingeing in his leg. "He's hardly said a word to me; hasn't even said sorry. I'm not dealing with him right now."

"He'll be waiting for you out there," Lestrade tells him. The corner of his lip twitches and he's holding back a smile, John can tell. John narrows his eyes and turns around, storming out of the office.

Sherlock is waiting for him, he finds when he get out to the kerb.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?" John asks, crossing his arms tightly against his chest.

"Yes," Sherlock replies.

"Besides Baker Street."

The detective deflates slightly at that. "Yes," he repeats.

"Good," John mutters. "You're going there."

"I'll pay for the cab," Sherlock tells him after a moment.

John nods curtly and stares at his feet, waiting for Sherlock to hail them a cab.

He does it in record time, as always.

About three minutes into the ride, John can feel himself nodding off. Car rides had always made him drowsy, and with the day's added shocks he's already exhausted, and it's only coming up on four in the afternoon. He allows his eyes to fall shut, head falling and jerking back up as the cab moves and shakes him back into slight wakefulness. After another few minutes, he's shifting downward, sliding sideways, until he feels his shoulder make contact with something angular and bony. That'll be Sherlock, he figures, and he's just so tired, he doesn't care. John's head tips and ends up resting against his friend's shoulder, and he lets himself drift off and be _neutral_ for five minutes.

Sherlock watches him for a moment, the slack look on John's face, the relaxation in his form. He's laying comfortably against Sherlock's side, breathing soft and unmeasurable, and Sherlock swallows tightly, because he looks about five years younger, minimum, and because he knows the reason John is so tense and so worked up is himself.

He ought to be getting sleep too, he knows; he hasn't had a proper rest in too long - a time long enough that John would probably force him to bed, had this been three years ago. Sighing, Sherlock slumps against the cab's seat and leans against John in turn, softly dropping his head against the doctor's. He won't sleep, not here; he has to let John know when to get out. He does close his eyes, though, and rest for just a moment, because he knows that John won't be angry with him forever, and that they will be fine, and that John is glad he is back.


	3. D3 - Watching a Movie

**A/N** - We can thank free time in chemistry for this entry.

Here is the art this entry is based off of: (reapersun . tumblr . com) /post/35974813928/30-day-otp-challenge-day-3-watch ing-a-movie

* * *

For just over a week and a half, Sherlock has been staying in a flat - he wouldn't even really venture to call it a flat, actually. It's a box. A filthy box, at that. The wallpaper is coming off in strips, the carpet is from the seventies _at least_, and he's positive that he's just seen a cockroach run off, and they aren't even indigenous to England as pests. It's horrid and not much different than the conditions he lived in the past three years.

He hasn't heard from John, either, and that's all too much like the last three years.

Any attempt to speak to him, Sherlock figures, would be pointless. He'd beenlivid - he'd hardly spoken for the entire time Sherlock had been there. He moved on - didn't want to see Sherlock, speak to him, have anything to do with him. It was... understandable, Sherlock thought. So he didn't try to contact John. It would only make matters worse.

In reality, for a week and a half, John has been moping around his own flat. Mrs. Hudson has tried to talk to him about it - to no avail - and Mycroft has even made an attempt to contact him, which is worse than Sherlock, really. He wants to erase the Holmes's from his thoughts, memories, and the face of the earth.

He misses Sherlock, and hates himself for it.

A day after two weeks of Sherlock's return to the living, he's shoving things around in his flat and wondering if there's a way he can get a microscope from St. Barts. John probably got rid of his; there wasn't any reason for him to keep it, or none that he knew of, and asking him about it isn't an option anyhow. Sherlock kicks an empty box aside and crosses his arms with a huff, lamenting silently over the condition of _everything_. There's a knock on the door that doesn't sound like Mycroft and therefore must be the landlord, and he groans, rubbing a hand over his face. Stepping over a pile of yellowing newspapers, Sherlock walks to the door and wrenches it open with an irrtated "_What?"_

John.

His angry expression softens and his eyes widen in slight, back straightening, and he swallows tightly. John has a bag clutched in one hand, a DVD case under his arm, and he's staring at the groud, lips pressed together tightly.

"John," Sherlock eventually vocalises. John glances up from the ground.

"Can I come in?" he asks. It's almost meek.

"Of course," Sherlock mutters. "It's - ah. Messy. Sorry." John nods and Sherlock steps aside, holding the door open for him.

He's brought food, Sherlock realises. Food and a DVD. Movie night, just like he used to be forced into every other week. The doctor walks in and over to the sofa, drops the bag on the table, and manoeuvres around a few boxes and over to the old television set. Sherlock is suddenly glad that Mycroft had gotten him a DVD player when he supplied furniture.

"Your food's in the top box," John tells him. Sherlock picks it up and looks inside. Chinese.

"You remember my order," he comments offhandedly.

John huffs in amusement. "You ate the same thing every other day for a year and a half, and I called for it every time. Of course I remember." He stops talking and shakes his head. Sherlock lowers himself onto his ratty couch awkwardly as if it isn't his and takes a plastic fork from the bag on the table.

When he finishes setting up the movie, John joins Sherlock, sitting slightly too far away for this to be familiar, for it to be friendly. He takes his food and opens it up, sitting too straight and too stiff. Sherlock shifts and pushes his food around, staring into the container instead of at the movie. He doesn't even realise what it is until the first series of gunshots.

Bond. He brought _Bond._

Sherlock snaps his head up and narrows his eyes at the television. John _knows_ how much Sherlock hates bond. He did this on purpose; like a peace treaty, as odd as it seems.

Sherlock's lip twitches and he sniffs, stabbing at a shrimp and wrinkling his nose at all the fallacies in just five minutes of the film.

"Completely illogical," he mumbles through his food. John rolls his eyes and stares at the screen. Sherlock raises his voice a tad. "The chances of either of them surviving that and him proceeding to _take her home_ after the ordeal - "

"Statistics don't matter in a work of fiction," John interrupts.

"Forget statistics, then, and have a look at the moronic writing! The screenwriter clearly has no idea - !"

"It's just for entertainment - !"

"Absolutely ridiculous and thoughtless - "

"But it's _Bond_, Sherlock!" John exclaims. He watches the man beside him as he goes on and on about _literal impossibilities!_ and he's just so animated and stupid and _alive_ that John starts to laugh.

Sherlock cuts off and stares at John as he laughs, hand on his chest, shoulders shaking. A grin stretches from one ear to the other and Sherlock starts laughing too, a hand coming up to cover his eyes.

"Oh, god," John manages through giggles. "What - what are we doing?"

Sherlock has to take a few slow breaths before he can respond. "I don't know," he admits. His hand drops and John can see the grin on his face lighting all his features, eyes crinkling and practically shining. Sherlock turns to him and his grin softens into a fond smile, directed right at John.

_I'm sorry_.

Sherlock exhales softly, apologies colouring his expression. "Can I come back home, John?"

John reciprocates his smile. "After you cut that damn hair," he says, giving Sherlock a shove to the shoulder.

_You're forgiven._


End file.
